


When I'm not with you, think of you always

by dragon_temeraire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22487497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_temeraire/pseuds/dragon_temeraire
Summary: He expects to find Crowley engaged in book-related chaos, or possibly dozing in a warm spot. Instead—and he freezes for a moment in shock—he finds Crowleyreading.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 252





	When I'm not with you, think of you always

**Author's Note:**

> You cannot convince me that two immortal beings, endlessly pining for each other, wouldn’t find SOME way of expressing that love. That’s it. That’s the premise.

Crowley spends a lot of time at the bookshop these days.

Aziraphale can’t say he minds—deep down he’s always craved Crowley’s company, and now he can enjoy it without repercussions or guilt. Crowley also tends to restlessly wander around the shop, picking up books from one shelf and cramming them onto another, and correcting this shuffle allows Aziraphale to look suitably busy when customers come in. Too busy to help them find something or ring it up, certainly.

In the early afternoon, when he realizes he hasn’t seen Crowley in a while, he goes looking for him among the stacks. He expects to find Crowley engaged in book-related chaos, or possibly dozing in a warm spot. Instead—and he freezes for a moment in shock—he finds Crowley _reading_.

Crowley is sprawled in one of Aziraphale’s mostly-broken antique chairs (best not to encourage people to stay), sunglasses crammed hastily into his jacket pocket, intently absorbed in—Aziraphale’s heart nearly stops when he sees _exactly what book_ Crowley is reading.

Crowley sees him then, and turns the cover toward him excitedly. “Angel, look!”

Aziraphale knows the title, but reads it dutifully anyway.

_Looking up at the Stars_

_Love, and poems about snakes_

There’s a little snake embossed on the spine, and that’s probably what caught Crowley’s attention in the first place. He usually keeps the book hidden behind others, carefully out of sight, but Crowley has obviously spotted it somehow.

“I never see snakes written about like this, in such a positive way,” Crowley says brightly. “Listen to this,” he continues, tapping the page eagerly, oblivious to Aziraphale’s distress.

_I adore your sunlight eyes_

_Your gleaming scales_

_And your perfect, sharp smile_

_Oh, how I love to look at you_

Aziraphale is torn between admiration of Crowley’s remarkably good reading voice, and vague horror at Crowley reading a love poem Aziraphale has written _about him._ All he can do is stand there, stock-still and silent, as Crowley flips through a few more pages.

“Isn’t it good?” he asks after reading a few more selections out loud, and Aziraphale forces himself to nod, though he mostly finds it to be terribly awkward.

Crowley flips back to the cover curiously, and points at the small embossed letters. “Know much about the author? R. P. Hale?”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale prevaricates for a moment. It will be highly suspicious if he pretends to know nothing about the author; he’s well-versed in the history of all the books in his shop, and Crowley knows it. “He was quite secretive. Kept to himself a lot. Apparently, er, really liked snakes.”

Crowley gives him an odd look, but still manages to seem fond. “Apparently,” he says. “Anything else?”

And this, here, is the big decision. Aziraphale can give Crowley more than a fair chance to figure it all out, to reveal himself completely. Or, he can pretend there’s nothing more to learn about this mysterious writer, and resign himself to years and years of more pining.

He looks at Crowley’s small, warm smile, at the way his hands are gently cradling the book, and at those sunlight eyes he still adores. He decides.

“I know he wrote this,” Aziraphale says, waving Crowley along as he weaves through stacks of books. When they arrive at the one shelf he’s set aside for romances, he casually plucks one out and hands it to Crowley.

Crowley eyes the soft pink cover suspiciously. “A Blessing in Disguise,” he reads. “Book one of a series. A _series?_ He went from poetry to romance novels?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says cautiously, because Crowley’s gaze has just drifted down to the cover art.

On it, a woman with bright red hair is holding a black umbrella over her head to keep herself shaded, and is grinning at a man with very blond hair. He really looks nothing like Aziraphale, nor does the woman look much like Crowley, but the rather pleasant and distinct contrast between them is there all the same.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says in a strange voice, eyes darting from the book cover to Aziraphale and then back again. “Aziraphale, is this?”

Aziraphale almost desperately wants to jump in and say _a joke, it’s a joke!_ , regretting his earlier bravado, but finds he can’t turn back now. All he can do is stare at Crowley, helpless to stop any conclusions from being drawn.

Crowely sets the book gently on a random shelf, then curls his hand around Aziraphale’s wrist and says, “You need to come with me.”

“Um,” Aziraphale says as he’s towed through the bookshop. “Crowley, where are we going?”

But Crowley doesn’t answer, just opens the door of the Bentley for Aziraphale before climbing in himself, then drives in silent determination. Aziraphale attempts a bit of conversation, but it goes nowhere, so he ends up idly watching the scenery sweeping past his window.

He’s only a little surprised, then, when a familiar building looms into sight. He smiles a little, because at least he knows where they’re going.

Crowley’s hand settles warm and reassuring on his wrist once more, and Aziraphale walks alongside him, more confident now, as they take the lift up to Crowley’s flat. Crowley releases him in the hallway to dig out his keys and unlock the door, an amusingly mundane thing for him to do, Aziraphale thinks, considering his propensity for dramatic snapping.

Aziraphale looks around curiously when they get inside. It looks much the same as it did the last time he was here, and although the circumstances are very different now, he’s still hurried past Crowley’s beautiful plants. Instead he follows Crowley—who is striding quite fast now—through the gray echoing rooms, until he stops suddenly at a blank wall.

Crowley’s fingers tap the wall, seemingly at random, and a hidden door swings open and reveals another room. Crowley, looking painfully nervous, gestures him inside.

The first thing Aziraphale sees is his own face, rendered in marble in exquisite detail. Each curl of his hair has been delicately carved, along with the soft curve of his lips and the roundness of his cheeks. He has never before considered himself beautiful, but the work makes it clear that to someone, he must be.

He admires it for a moment longer, impressed by the skill of the sculptor, then takes in the rest of the large room. It is filled with pieces of art of all types—not just sculpture, but also paintings, tapestry, pottery and woodcarvings.

He’s so distracted by the breadth of the collection that it takes him longer than it should to realize that all of the art features the same subject, and that subject is _him_.

It gives him a sudden soaring, joyous feeling in his heart: it is obvious now that he is known, he is understood, and that he is _treasured_.

A piece of linen mounted on the wall catches his attention, and he walks closer. A pair of wings are embroidered on it, spread wide in their full glory. Each feather has been carefully stitched in shades of soft white, and outlined in shimmering gold. The work is strikingly beautiful, and Aziraphale can’t help but touch his fingers to it, feeling with sudden clarity the love in every thread.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“I only really saw them the once,” Crowley says hesitantly from behind him. “So I did my best from memory.”

Aziraphale turns then, sees Crowley looking more nervous than ever. “You did wonderfully,” he says, smiling. The love in the room, so much more apparent now that he can recognize it, gently surrounds him, warm and steadying.

Crowley fidgets, then abruptly blurts, “I always planned to show this to you, if ever we weren’t on opposite sides. If we weren’t beholden to anyone anymore. And if ever I thought there was really a chance,” he finishes quietly. “But until then I had to find _some_ way—”

“And all I could do,” Aziraphale says in a rush, “is write poetry dedicated to you, and stories about the love we could be in.” He shakes his head. “Sometimes, when I didn’t see you for years, it was all I had.”

“But now there aren’t any restrictions,” Crowley says, just as Aziraphale steps close and puts his arms around him.

It’s impulsive, but Aziraphale can’t wait any longer to hold him, to press his face against Crowley’s neck and just breathe him in. And when that isn’t quite enough, he presses his lips there, and moves his way up, kissing Crowley’s jaw, and cheek, and eyebrow, and, finally, his lips. Crowley’s arms tighten around him at that, and Aziraphale smiles.

He looks into Crowley’s golden-yellow eyes, fixed unwaveringly upon him. “I can write new stories now, about the love we _are_ in,” he says.

“And I can paint you better than ever, now that I have a real-life model,” Crowley says, smiling back.

“Only if you paint yourself in next to me,” Aziraphale says.

“Of course,” Crowley says, stroking a hand along Aziraphale’s cheek and kissing him softly several times. “Where else would I be?”

**Author's Note:**

> I intended to have this finished and posted more than a month ago, but I guess life's like that sometimes. (It doesn't help that I've been spending most of the little free time I have on the Good Omens cross stitch). I also think this fic is maybe a little too sappy...but oh well. Sometimes you just have to be Soft.


End file.
